A/N: So here we are with the longest update to date, and one of the longest pieces I've ever written. Seriously, I've written whole stories that aren't this long! but I am workingon that so.... And and a big thanks to TheDarkPrince for his efforts as Beta. Oh, and I don't own anything so don't sue. Now, on with the show!

If you take a life do you know what you'll give?

Odds are you won't like what it is. - Chris Cornell

Simmons had been hand selected, along with a small cadre of other men, to take rafts across the river that acted as a natural barrier; dividing the town and the opposing armies. Their mission was to sneak in behind enemy lines and set explosives at strategic points throughout the enemy encampment and hopefully blow a hole right through the front-lines. With heavy artillery and an entire platoon of men waiting to back them up just a whistle-blow away, should they run into trouble.

On both sides of the river there was a bombed out no man's land, where neither army ventured except to try cross over to the other side, and this is where they were trapped on the enemy side of the river. The Russians had known they were coming and only about a dozen men had been able to escape the initial assault after they crossed the river and now they were trying to evade detection and get back to their own side.


He was jerked awake by the blaring klaxons, their shrill shriek slicing through his alcohol induced stupor and bringing him back to full alertness. He knew what that shriek meant; 'shits hit the fan, grab a weapon and get ready to start killing stuff', not that he would take a life. He slid out of bed and grabbed his rifle as he ran out the door and rushed head long towards the sounds of screams, explosions and gunfire.

He was nearly to the clearing that bordered the river, leaping over raised defences, trenches and fox-holes like an Olympic hurdler in a tight race for the gold. He leapt over another foxhole, and was about half way over when a soldier stood up to aim and fire, his foot catching on the man's head and causing him to hit the ground in a heap of sweating gasping man, the moaning and bitching coming from inside the hiding hole telling him that the soldier was fine, aside from a monster head ache. He pushed himself to his feet and began running anew. He only made it about five yards when a piercing whistle caused him to turn tail and dive into the foxhole. An explosion shook the ground and rocked the little earthen defence, raining dirt and some sticky liquid that he couldn't discern in the darkness. He hoped it was just mud. Screams and shouts for a medic told him that it probably wasn't.

Raziel poked his head out of the hole and more whistling signalled the approach of more artillery shells, some exploding a few dozen feet above the ground to rain superheated, high-speed shrapnel that cut through armour and flesh like it was tissue paper. The medic was pinned down in a foxhole and against his better judgment, and urged on by the frantic screams of pain and calls for help, Raziel scrambled over the top of his hiding spot and sprinted towards the origin of the screams, almost drowned out by sounds of gunfire and the shrieks and CRACK's of incoming and exploding artillery shells. When the echo's faded he could hear pop's of rifle fire.

He got a funny feeling in his head and a sense of foreboding quickly set into his mind, like that time when he had just learned to swing off of the trapeze. Somehow he had known that if he were to wrap his legs around the bar instead of holding it with his hands, then he would slip and fall and cut his arm when his small body pressed into the safety net at the bottom of his had chalked that sense of foreboding up to nerves and uncertainty about trying something new and he had needed a dozen stitches to close the gash on his right forearm.

This was different however it was almost like a full body shock and he instinctively threw himself to the right, dropping his rifle and throwing his arms up over his head and pressing over his ears. Seconds later the ground he would have been standing on exploded in a concussive burst of shrapnel and debris, before he even hit the ground at the end of his dive. He felt a searing pain in his stomach, hip and upper leg that was quickly becoming a dull ache and then fading into nothing, he scrambled the last few feet to the hole on his hands and knees and tumbled down the side.

O'Mally was screaming in pain and clutching his right leg, blood was pouring from the area and his screams were becoming more slurred as his hands began to shake. The other man in the foxhole, Raziel didn't know his name but the small red cross on his helmet denoted him as a medic, was fighting and pleading with the injured man to let him treat the wound. He was a smaller man and he didn't posses the brute force necessary to extricate the injured limb from the rapidly weakening man, a limitation Raziel didn't share. Raziel wound back and punched, landing a moderate blow to O'Malley's forehead, stunning the man and nearly sending him to the blissful land of unconsciousness. The medic gave him a shot of morphine in the jugular to dull the pain and Raziel tied a make-shift tourniquet about half way between his knee and where the ankle would be just a few inches above the heavily bleeding, jagged stump, and then did his best to wrap the wound and apply pressure to staunch the bleeding.

"Hey Razz..." O'Malley trailed off, hismind beginning to be effected by the painkiller now flowing though his body, "I'm surprised you're up and about, way you were drinkin' I thought your liver was going to shut down right there at Rosies." His reminiscence was interrupted when his head flopped towards the leg Raziel was trying to put pressure on. "Hey, wha-appened to my leg?" he asked, whether he was slurring from the morphine or blood loss Raziel wasn't sure.

"Just a little cut is all." He lied, "You're gonna be fine." he let the medic take over the leg and moved to console the injured man. O'Malley looked like he was going to buy it but then his head flopped to the left and he saw his own booted foot lying not three feet away.

"Jesus fuck, is that my foot?" he asked, somewhat hysterical.

The medic had been fiddling with the tourniquet, tightening it.

"He needs a hospital," the smaller man said. "Can you take him back?" Raziel nodded, feeling inexplicably weak and numb.

"Hey man, we're going for a little run. I need you to hold on OK?" O'Malley babbled something that Raziel took to mean 'ok' so he hauled the injured man onto his shoulders; arms on his right and legs on his left, so that he was slung horizontal across his upper back. He wrapped his left arm around O'Malley's left leg and then grabbed his left wrist in his hand, firmly securing the injured man to his back and allowing a free hand to keep balance with. He took off at a staggering jog but quickly became accustomed to the extra weight and was soon running almost as fast as he could if he weren't burdened, easily clearing or navigating around obstructions. As he approached the rear of the combat area and the shriek, CRACK and rat-tat-tat-tat of artillery shells and gunfire began to fade into the distance.

It seemed to him like he'd left his strength and stamina behind with the danger and by the time he entered the emergency room of the makeshift field hospital, a half of a kilometre away, he could barely stagger onwards. It was practically a godsend when he plopped O'Malley down on a free gurney and the burning in his muscles dulled to a throbbing ache. No one had yet noticed their arrival through the panic and influx of other soldiers arriving with wounded men and calling a doctor over before going back to the frontlines.

"I need help!" he tried shouting over the din and it seemed like he'd been ignored until a nurse came over and began checking his pulse, O'Malley jerked awake.

"Thanks for the lif..." he trailed off moments before the nurse said he'd died. Then she shoved his cart aside and went to help someone else.

Raziel felt numb. Just a few hours ago O'Malley had been the center of attention at their table, regaling them all with the story of how he nailed one of the cheerleaders at his high school, where he was starting quarter-back. And now he was dead. Just like that. He looked so peaceful, if he only looked at his face, he could swear he was asleep and any moment now he would wake up and be pissed at him for staring at him while he was dreaming about some girl he once knew. Suddenly, he was bumped aside as two nurses wheeled another gurney passed.

He shook off his shock and began the process of trying to navigate past the constantly shifting sea of dead and dying men as more poured in. By the time he was half way to the exit he knew that the doctors and nurses would never be able to hold up and he made a snap decision to shrug off his combat duty for now and put some of his first aid and medical experience to use.

Like with so many other things since he'd started basic training just a few short months ago, none of his past experience had amounted to much good but he still did what he could; treating wounds and sorting the dead from the wounded, occasionally stopping, transfixed by an expression or a wound or an exposed tattoo. Eventually he was ushered out of the hospital and sent to the communications tower, to relieve the Com. Tech./Doctor that was on duty tonight. The blanket that they had placed around his shoulders told him that he was probably being sent away to deal with his shock as much as to free up another set of experienced medical hands.

He entered the room, a tangle of wires and bastardized equipment all jury-rigged into a functioning communications station, and told the attendant that he had been sent to relive Jameson, adding that the medical staff needed his help in the infirmary. Jameson told him that basically he was just supposed to cool his heels, he had already tried calling for help and had been denied, so Raziel would just have to sit there and listen to the static and chatter. So Raziel pulled up a chair and sat, pulling the blanket a little tighter around his shoulders.

As tired as he had been, and as much as he wanted a break, he hated having nothing to do. Because when he wasn't physically doing something, he was thinking. And not just thinking about what he had done or what he would, or had to, do but thinking about himself; reflecting. When he was in Jump with the Titans he would inevitably spend his 'quiet' time thinking about Slade. Because whether he admitted it or not, they really were very similar. Sure they had different histories and lives and even views of the world but they were also similar in a lot of ways; rising to the top echelons of their chosen paths in a world dominated by meta-humans and super-powered aliens despite being regular humans. They both possess minds that make them just as dangerous as any physical skill, they were both stubborn and ruthless in pursuit of their goals. But none of those were the reason why Robin had hated Slade so much. Sure Slade was an assassin and a dangerous criminal but he also represented something to Robin, which was the real reason he had created the Red-X suit and lied to his friends. Sure he had done it to try catch Slade, but he also done it because he was curious. What would it be like to live on the other side of the law; to be free from expectations or rules?

And Slade represented that. Slade represented what he could do from the other side of the hero/villain conflict, the fun and freedom he could have; the giddy feeling that comes with an adrenaline surge that had nothing to do with combat.

But his parents had raised him with morals, and in his desperation to hold onto the last shreds of them, he had violently and obsessively fought against his darker tendencies. He had, does, believe that by conquering Slade he can lay that side of himself to rest as well and live a life his parents would have been proud of; the life of a hero, like the Titans.

The Titans. How long has it been now, he wondered. Would he ever see them again? Of course he would. As soon as he was done here he was leaving Slade, one way or another. Truth be told, he was only still here because these people desperately needed help. But he was just one man... wait! The Titans could help him. And then they could put this mess behind him and get on with his life.

Realizing almost for the first time that he was in a communications room he decided to dial up the Titans Tower frequency and hail his friends.

"Yeah." His heart fluttered when he heard Cyborg's voice, he couldn't keep his voice from stuttering slightly when he answered.

"C-Cyborg?"

"Yeah," he sounded tired, run down. Raziel immediately faded into the background of his awareness as Robin muscled to the front.

"Get the team together, I have-"

"You think that's funny?" Cyborg asked, suddenly angry, "I ain't getting the team together, so stop calling! You people made your choice." The line went dead before he could get another word in. Slightly disheartened but not done yet he keyed up the frequency for Starfire's personal communicator.

"Umm... Starfire's Communicator," an unknown female voice answered.

"Is Starfire there?" he asked

"Hello?" the girl in question answered.

"Sta- Kori?" again he was at a loss, tears were threatening to fall just from hearing her voice, grainy and cracked as it was over the obsolete speaker system.

"Who is this?" she sounded suspicious, like she didn't recognise his voice. Sure he'd been gone a while but they were so close. How could she forget?

"It's Robin," he answered.

"You think that is funny!?" she screamed, "Robin was a great hero and you have no right using his name!" Static burst from the tiny speaker as she terminated the connection.

What the hell? He hailed her again.

"What!?" the anger was so unlike her that he had to check the frequency to make sure he got the right one.

"Kori, listen to me. It's Robin and I need help. Get the team together and I'll call back in ten minutes."

The girl he didn't recognise answered back.

"Kori doesn't want to talk to you. Don't call back." and for the third time that evening he found himself listening to the hiss of static. Each second he heard the sound of dead air he felt his emotions rising in his chest, making his heart feel like it was being squeezed. He had thought he was lying when he said they thought he was dead. Is it possible that they actually believed he was gone? It took several minutes for him to regain his composure. He dialed Starfire again.

"Hello?" Cyborg answered, and he sounded none too pleased.

"Cyborg it's Robin. Get the team together, I need help-"

"Look, Robin," he added extra emphasis on Robin's name, almost like he didn't believe him. "I'm not getting the team back together. No one is going to help you. Don't. Call. Back." The line died and they never answered when he tried calling them back.

The emotion he had felt earlier returned with a vengeance and he started crying, bawling his eyes out, for the first time since his parent's funeral. As much as he hated Slade for what he symbolized in his mind, he loved the Titan's for the very same reason. And now, being so callously turned away by them in his hour of need, it was like his whole life was mocking him, telling him that he had been wasting his time. The life his parents would have been proud of, the hero his parents could have been proud of, had turned him away. So called heroes and they had told him 'No' when he had asked for help.

Feeling suddenly claustrophobic in the cramped, too hot, communications room he stood up, pushing the chair over as he rose, and walked out into the moon light and sounds of distant fighting. Pulling his blanket around his shoulders to keep out the early autumn chill.

This was all a bad dream, he decided. All he had to do was go lay down and when he woke up he would be in the med bay in the Tower because obviously he had been hurt in some fight.

"You!" He turned, his face the definition of the expression 'deer in the headlights'. "Yeah, you! Get over here!" He wandered over feeling like he was wading through a chest high river.

"Yeah sir?" he asked, his voice sounded odd to him, almost like someone else was speaking and he was just tagging along.

"Reds are pushing the line, we're going in as backup." He looked at the gathered men, all of them sporting some type of injury, ranging from broken limbs to cuts and wounds that were obscured by swiftly reddening bandages. The man behind the wheel of the lead Jeep was missing his left leg. Raziel jumped on the back and was nearly thrown off the vehicle as it made a sharp right out of the parking area and rattled down the road towards the explosions. He leaned off the side of the jeep and grabbed a rifle from a retreating soldier.

He timed his jump just right and as the vehicle came to a screeching halt he vaulted over the top and hit the ground in a roll, he came upon his knee with the butt of the gun resting firmly on his right shoulder, he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The gun was set to full automatic but only a half dozen rounds launched from the muzzle before a series of clicks alerted Raziel to the empty clip. He reached for the spare clips stored in the pocket on his right leg and was somewhat surprised when his hand came into contact with bare flesh. He looked down and saw that his uniform was shredded and blood soaked and the flesh beneath was peppered with scars. Next, his eyes scanned the surrounding area and he saw that he was at the very front of the defensive effort, in front of the barricades and set to take the brunt of the enemy advance, held back briefly by the ferocious shouts and gunfire of the recently arrived back up.

His body was twisted left as a bullet hit his shoulder, the searing pain quickly being replaced by a dull throb and then nothing. He got that weird flash in him mind and jumped back behind what looked like the bombed out remains of a brick wall seconds before gunfire ripped through the space he'd just been occupying. As he leaned back against his cover he could feel the small tremors of bullets impacting the remains of the brick fence. He took several deep breaths to regain his composure and as his head sagged to the left he saw a six foot length of reid-bar leaning against the wall he was hiding behind. He could feel the occasional tremor of impacting bullets for a long time, and curled into the blanket that was somehow still wrapped around his shoulders. He settled in to wait for a lull in the barrage of incoming and outgoing bullets so that he might get back behind some better cover and arm himself. For now he just had to stay really still and try push back against this fatigue that seemed determine to force him into slumber.

How did this happen, he wondered. In his relatively short life he had trained under the best martial artists and combatants in the world. He had gone up against entire gangs armed with nothing but a staff and a goofy costume and come out victorious. He had led the Titans into battle against horrendous odds and won, time and time again- the same Titan's that couldn't be bothered to help him. He'd always known that they hated how he made them train and run drills so often, but to hate it so much as to abandon him? -He had trained under the wings of the Batman and gone all the way to a small village in China to train with the True Master and now he was Apprentice to Deathstroke the Terminator. Somehow he seemed able to almost instantly heal from what should have been fatal wounds and here he was hiding behind a crumbling brick wall and hoping it would last long enough for him to crawl away and hide somewhere safe. It was so damn maddening he could scream.

And scream he did. Before he knew it he had grabbed the leaning length of reid-bar and leapt over the make shift shelter and dashed headlong at the opposing force. He ignored the searing pain that he had come to associate with being shot and deftly twirled the steel bar on the ends of his fingers and around his body as he ran at the opposing force. He heard screaming coming from behind, followed by a thunderous cheer, but ignored it, his mind already running through countless scenarios for how the upcoming encounter would go down. His weariness long since faded he felt a boost of energy as the opposing force let loose animal yells and leapt over their cover, forming a massive wave of bayonets coming at him, he pushed himself faster. There was a burned out shell of an old Volks Wagon Beetle just ahead and he stepped up onto it and used it as a platform to launch himself into the mass of swarming, screaming enemies. He would end this war even if he had to beat every soldier on both side to within an inch of their lives and then he would go back to Jump and make the Titans train until they passed out! Just to get back at them for the massive 'fuck you' they'd just given him.


"Captain, what the fuck happened here?" the old Major breathed, looking slightly green around the gills at the remaining carnage from the battle three days ago. He tried not to look at the slowly reddening bandages around the Captain's chest as he lay in a hospital bed.

"It had been unusually quiet at the enemy camp for almost two weeks, so we sent in a team. They were supposed to go in under cover of darkness and plant C4 charges to demolish the base. Somehow the enemy knew we were coming and they ambushed the unit. Killed all of them, but not before they had given the signal for back up. We had three companies in the wings, plus cannons and snipers, waiting to back them up. All hell broke loose as we charged across the bridge under cover from snipers and cannons and all of a sudden a force that had to be at least twice as large as our own was charging back at us." he explained.

"Jesus H. Christ," the Major breathed in disbelief from where he sat beside the Captain's bed in the field hospital. "How aren't you all dead?"

"That new Lieutenant, Raziel. Somehow he rallied the troops and launched a counter attack." the wounded Captain Forrest explained, having a hard time breathing because of the bandaged up bayonet wound in his chest. "He just came out of nowhere with a whole platoon of armed men from the infirmary, he leapt off the jeep and flew clean over the whole defensive line then burned out all of his ammo from the very front of the defensive effort. He was even in front of the barricades and cover. When he ran out of ammo he leapt behind this flimsy wall and just stayed real still, we all thought he'd been hit and bled out but suddenly he screamed and grabbed a short pole and jumped over his cover, running headlong at the enemy." The Captain stopped for a few moments to catch his breath. He reached for his water and took a sip to wet his throat. The Major had no qualms about waiting.

"The moon was full so we had pretty good visibility, it looked like he had taken a few rounds, the blood-mist bursting out of him, but he just kept going. Someone yelled for him to get behind cover and the men, who had previously been keeping hidden, looked to see what was happening. Then more people started yelling and soon everyone had their bayonets attached and was charging right at the enemy, about a hundred yards behind him." He took another series of laboured breaths, "he leapt off this car that was on the bridge and disappeared into the sea of oncoming enemies. It took a little effort and bloodshed to get through the first wave of Russians and then we noticed a zig-zag swath of fallen enemies lying on the ground; some were dead, others were unconscious and almost all of them were sporting limbs that bent out at odd angles in odd places. At the very front of this swath was Raziel, his metal pole twirling and lashing out at anything within reach, he has to be responsible for at least a fifth of the enemy casualties during that skirmish." He finished his story and watched the Major eye him carefully.

"Don't bull-shit me Captain," Major Paine warned.

"I'm not sir," Donald Forrest said. "You can ask anyone. Raziel was like a man possessed. I've never seen anything like it."

"It's true sir." A man in the next bed confirmed. He had bandages over his eyes and his head was facing slightly to the right of the people he was talking to. After a few minutes, everyone was agreeing rather vocally that the Captain was speaking nothing but truth. After a few minutes more the Major left in search of Raziel. No one gets through that kind of skirmish without getting hurt, no matter how good they are.

"Probably down at Frosia's tavern trying to commit suicide by scotch." one of the nurses stated off handedly. She, along with almost every other nurse and soldier, had gone down at some point over the last few days to try and talk to him but all he did was tell them to go away with a bottle of booze in front of him and eyes that looked like they had no more tears to cry.


A/N2: I hope you guys liked it. I am really interested to hear your opinion of this chapter in particular so don't be afraid to tell me what you think.